


a face full of rain

by kirkspocks



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Crying, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, self-indulgent fic of my favs bursting into tears
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-15
Updated: 2015-08-15
Packaged: 2018-04-14 18:48:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4575735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kirkspocks/pseuds/kirkspocks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If it were anyone else—a sobbing patient in Hannibal’s office, face ugly and red—Hannibal would be disinterested, would wait quietly for them to calm down. With Will, though, the crying became something captivating. It was exquisite. His uncontrollable rush of emotion, his trembling, his nerve-wracked body heaving air in small bursts. Pure vulnerability, and Will gave himself to Hannibal for protection, for comfort. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Will is over-stressed and breaks down crying; Hannibal soothes him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a face full of rain

**Author's Note:**

> _"Graham put his head down on the table, his cheek on his arm. He could see the print of his forehead, nose, mouth, and chin on the window as the lightning flashed behind it; a face with drops crawling through it down the glass.  
>  Eyeless. A face full of rain."_ — Thomas Harris, Red Dragon

A mug full of black coffee fell to the floor and shattered into pieces. The sound of it breaking echoed loudly throughout Hannibal’s kitchen. Hot coffee pooled at Will’s feet, spread out around the white ceramic shards of the mug.

Hannibal didn’t mind—he was used to the occasional spill in his kitchen, food or otherwise. Without a word, he left the food he was preparing and pulled out two rags and a spray-bottle of cleaner specially made for stone floors. 

Will stood in a silent shock, staring at the puddle of coffee. The moment Will stepped into Hannibal’s home this evening, Hannibal knew he was disoriented. He could tell by Will’s short responses and the way his eyes drifted around the kitchen, dazed and distracted. For the past thirty minutes, he’d been standing by the refrigerator, quietly nodding along to Hannibal’s words like he was half-asleep and half-listening. It wasn’t exactly surprising that Will’s trembling hands dropped the mug of coffee Hannibal handed him. 

“I’m sorry,” Will said. He seemed confused, like the mug had spontaneously burst in his hands. With eyebrows knitted together, Will watched Hannibal sop up the mess, spritz the floor with the clean smelling spray, then neatly wipe it away. Hannibal gathered the broken mug pieces in his hands.

“It’s all right, Will,” Hannibal said. He rose to his feet and disposed of the remains of the mug. “Are you feeling well?”

Will rubbed his hands up and down his arms, shivered like it was snowing inside. Though slightly delayed in his response, Will eventually shook his head “no,” his gaze still at the floor. Hannibal closed the distance between them. He resisted the urge to rest a hand on Will’s shoulder, assumed that it would only make him startle like a deer. 

“Would you like to lie down?”

This time, instead of words or a nod of his head, Will brought a hand to his face and covered his mouth. He still trembled, began to blink wildly behind his glasses. Hannibal heard Will’s breath hitch suddenly, gasp for air. Briefly, Hannibal surmised that he was having an episode—but Will exhaled with a quiet sob, and Hannibal’s mild concern dissipated. 

“I’m sorry,” Will repeated, his voice wavering. 

Hannibal said Will’s name to capture his attention, but Will only shook, pushed his glasses up and covered his eyes with his hand. Hannibal could tell by Will’s stuttering breaths that he was silently crying. He needed to calm Will—he did not want him to hyperventilate. 

Placing a hand on Will’s lower back, Hannibal led him to the living room. It was a bit difficult to get him there, as Will seemed hesitant to move, and kept his hand partially over his eyes, so his steps were small and cautious. 

The living room was dim, with a few lamps giving off a warm glow. They were at the couch, now, and Hannibal sat down first, expecting Will to follow. He didn’t—only stood and looked around the room, the same dazed look in his eyes, although this time they were glassy with tears. 

“Please, Will,” Hannibal said softly, patting the empty space beside him. “Sit.”

Will practically collapsed next to Hannibal. He leaned forwards, made himself small, and rested his elbows on his knees. He nestled his face back into his hands and resumed his shallow breathing, as if his body were preparing to sob. 

“Will,” Hannibal said. His tone was the one he used when trying to bring Will outside his head, back down to Earth. “Tell me what’s wrong. Is it about the coffee?”

More trembling—it looked almost like Will was rocking back and forth, a comforting and childish motion—and then Will shook his head. Hannibal placed a hand on Will’s shoulder, let it drift down to his back and rub softly, soothing. Will pulled his face away from his hands.

“You have thousands of mugs, and you could afford thousands more.” The anger in Will’s tone was diminished by the wavering of his voice. “I don’t care about the damn coffee spilling. I don’t know why I’m—why I’m acting like this.”

Hannibal could hear Will’s stress. He knew he should not frighten Will, should not force him to break down, expunge his bottled up emotions all at once. And yet.

“You are under an extraordinary amount of stress,” Hannibal said. “Your mind holds a grim mixture of many things. Crime scenes, nightmares, disassociation, fear. Not to mention the pressure you must face from Jack Crawford.”

Will inhaled, and Hannibal could hear the roughness in his throat. “Yes,” Will said, his voice nearly inaudible. 

“And I assume this stress built and built, until it became too heavy. Dropping the mug—it was a small mistake, but it was proof that your mind has been foggy, disoriented. A breaking point.”

“Stop analyzing me,“ Will said, his words breaking off into a hiccup. 

Often, during their talks in Hannibal’s office, Will’s eyes went watery, and his voice became strained, shaken. Will would push a hand behind his glasses, try to rub tears away. Sometimes he would dig his nails into his knee just to stop them from spilling.

“It is all right to cry, Will,” Hannibal said.

Will nodded frantically. His hands, placed on his knees, still shook. A tear finally escaped the corner of Will’s eye, and it slipped down his cheek, heavy enough to roll to his chin. Under his breath, Will cursed, and covered his mouth again to muffle his distressed noises. He stared ahead, unable to face Hannibal.

Hannibal turned to Will instead, and gestured with his arms open. “Come,” he said. “It’s all right.”

To Hannibal’s satisfaction, Will accepted the embrace, and buried his face into Hannibal’s shoulder. Hannibal held him, cradled his head and smoothed his thumb over the curled hair at the nape of Will’s neck. If it were anyone else—a sobbing patient in Hannibal’s office, face ugly and red—Hannibal would be disinterested, would wait quietly for them to calm down. 

With Will, though, the crying became something captivating. It was exquisite. His uncontrollable rush of emotion, his trembling, his nerve-wracked body heaving air in small bursts. Pure vulnerability, and Will gave himself to Hannibal for protection, for comfort. 

Will began to apologize again, a mantra of “I’m sorry” muffled into Hannibal’s shoulder.

“There is no reason to apologize, Will,” Hannibal said. He seemed to apologizing a lot tonight, though his first apology for dropping the mug was the only necessary one. “You are simply expressing your emotions. One often feels better after a good cry.”

Will muttered something about being embarrassed—how he was a grown man and shouldn’t be so upset. Hannibal just hushed him, resumed petting his hair, massaging his neck. 

There was wetness seeping into Hannibal’s shirt, dampening his skin as Will’s sobbing intensified. Each inhale was wet and shaky. The smell of salt, nervous sweat, and Will’s natural scent was heavy in the air, and Hannibal allowed his acute senses to revel in it.

Hannibal sifted his hand through Will’s hair and used the other to rub his back, stroke his hand up and down. He did this until Will quieted, until he no longer shook from crying. They stayed in an embrace for a few minutes, until Will began to shift around. Before he could pull away, Hannibal pressed a gentle kiss to his temple. 

When Will did move, he slid down to lie on the couch, curled up with his head in Hannibal’s lap. Hannibal ignored Will’s shoes on the clean fabric. 

“Thanks for putting up with me,” Will sniffed. 

“I do not ‘put up with’ you, Will,” Hannibal said, returning his hand to Will’s hair. “I enjoy your company.”

Will huffed out a laugh. “Even when I break your things and cry all over you?”

“Yes.” Hannibal gently scratched at Will’s scalp, and smiled when he made a noise of pleasure. “Even when you put your shoes on my furniture.”

Without getting up, Will toed off his shoes and let them tumble to the floor. 

“Better?” Will asked.

“Better.” 

Hannibal traced his thumb around the shell of Will’s ear, stroked his hair and his neck, felt the goosebumps raising over his skin. Nuzzling his face into Hannibal’s lap, Will closed his reddened eyes. Hannibal would’ve assumed Will had fallen asleep if he hadn’t begun to rub his hand along Hannibal’s thigh. The movement felt nice, and Hannibal was content to let Will continue until he reached to tug at Hannibal’s zipper.

Hannibal placed his hand over Will’s. “Not tonight, Will,” he said. “Rest here. I’ll finish cooking our dinner.”

Will nodded, and moved to let Hannibal up off the couch. He listened to Hannibal work in the kitchen until he dozed off, the distant clanging of knives and dishes muddled into his dreams.

**Author's Note:**

> talk to me about crying boys @ kirkspocks.tumblr.com


End file.
